Last night I dreamed the museum had a room I'd never found

I'm walking through the basement of the museum I worked at in my twenties, and there's a door I don't remember. Behind it, drawers and drawers of unlabeled bones — nothing spectacular, just a lifetime of somebody's careful work that never got written up. I keep thinking: who prepped these? Did they die before they could finish? I woke up annoyed at myself for not staying longer in the dream to check the handwriting on the labels.